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Kherim slowed his footsteps down and looked at every face approaching him. In such a dangerous neighborhood as Kahlaran’s port side, there was no way to hide his identity, so it was better to notice a dagger about to stab him as soon as possible. The stench of fish struck him from one side and humidity did from the other. Everything was either white or khaki, to push away the sunlight and keep the interiors cool, but the alleys were still scorching hot.
Kherim turned a corner and walked by the shady traders populating every inch of the roadside. They were an interesting bunch, somewhere between charlatans and beggars. Some of them were selling fake jewelry or miracle ointments, while others sold more dangerous things that needed no advertising, if people knew what they were looking for.
Kherim stopped, squatted down in front of a man, and gently picked up a small vial of translucent liquid.
“What did we agree on, Jashmid?” he asked, but the man just wrapped his arms around himself. He was thin as bones, and he could have been twenty or two hundred. Kherim would have believed both.
“That I won’t cause any trouble. But that doesn’t mean I can only sell my knowledge and my goods to you!” he lashed back, but Kherim let it go this time.
“So, you know what happened. It’ll spare us some time, which is good. But you’re going to waste this time apologizing for yourself, which is not good. I’m not here to drag you to prison, nor to judge you. I’m here for answers, Jashmid.”
Kherim gave up the squat and sat down on the ground in front of the man with his legs crossed.
“If time is so important to you... Tell me what you want.”
“Who ordered the choking mist?” he asked, even though he knew he’d never get an honest answer. He had known Jashmid too long and too well, from the day he stepped in front of him at the war camp near Qajar and waved that milky white, mist-filled bottle in front of him.
“What do I get for ratting out one of my customers? You know I’m sensitive to that,” Jashmid asked, weighing the risk and profit. Kherim didn’t have time for him to decide which one would be worth it. He needed answers, quickly.
“Delicateness is a luxury for you, poisoner. Can you imagine what Charta would do to you if he knew you poisoned Saleel? Do you even know who he was?”
Jashmid shook his head. “I know Charta. Naturally. But not this Saleel, only that he was some important man.”
“Quite important,” Kherim nodded. “Important to the city, and important to my brother. Whoever set you up knew his business, or got unlucky in picking targets. Four years ago, someone who was equally important died in a simple robbery. If you walk far enough outside the east gate, you can find the skeleton of that killer. The falcons still scratch their claws on his bones.”
Kherim leaned closer to Jashmid’s horrified face. “You know that sound? That horrible scraping that sounds like they are doing it on your own skull?” he whispered, poking the poisoner’s forehead with his finger, causing him to snap back. “It’d be a shame for your head.”
“Well...” Jashmid began very slowly. “That sounds like a fair offer. However, the customer only messaged me through a servant. He called himself the Marid.”
There was a short pause.
“Listen, I don’t want to stick my nose in demons’ business. Maybe you shouldn’t either, qrahr.”
“Kahlaran hasn’t had a djinn since my grandfather’s time, Jashmid. It’s not a demon, it’s a street rat with a showy name. Although he knows what he’s doing.” Kherim scratched his beard. “What did this servant look like? Did he have a name?”
Jashmid shook his head. “He was like every other boy at the docks. He didn’t introduce himself, but he brought a lot of money, so I didn’t ask questions.”
“Since when don’t you ask questions?” Kherim asked, leaning back, but then let the conversation drop. He knew well enough how to recognize a lost lead. “Tell me something about this Marid. Is this the first time he’s bought from you?”
“Not before, not since,” the poisoner answered, shaking his head. “He paid fifty sungold for that bottle. I mean, for the contents. The boy brought the bottle with him.”
“And you didn’t get suspicious? Have you heard of him before? Did he do business with anyone else on the street?”
Jashmid hesitated for a moment, and then leaned closer to Kherim, keeping his voice down.
“I don’t know exactly who, but I’ve heard things. They say I’m lucky he knew I wouldn’t ask anything if he paid well. But others... He made them do despicable things, mostly through extortion. The people here believe he’s a demon because he always knows how to cause the most harm. He knows everyone’s secrets.”
“A pile of sungold lets you learn a lot of secrets,” Kherim said, getting up. “He’s not a demon, but he’s dangerous. Next time he sends a boy from the docks to you, you’ll remember his face. Scratch a mark into his forehead if you must, but I want to know who’s delivering his mail.”
Kherim reached into his pocket, pulling out two shimmering gold coins and tossing them in Jashmid’s lap.
“Choose your customers more carefully, Jashmid. It would truly be a shame for your head,” he said walking away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the poisoner put the coins in his bag with relief.
As Kherim left behind the shadier streets, he unwittingly straightened his back and raised his head. He usually walked with a hunched back, but if he was thinking, somehow, he always did this. He felt his thoughts ran better when his gaze stared forward, ignoring the street. It bothered him that this was the first time he had heard about this ‘Marid’. Although he had nothing to do with the city guard, he liked to know what’s going on in his home, and this strange extortionist was a new fish in the otherwise familiar pond.
Kherim was lost in his thoughts, almost to the point of carelessness. His legs led him home on their own, and he only noticed the soldier walking up to him at the last minute.
He didn’t know who he could trust, but it was a fruitless thought in itself. Common sense would never let him trust anyone, so Kherim just chose the people he wanted to trust. Fortunately, this man was one of them. “Dharm, have you ever heard of a blackmailer named the Marid?”
Dharm just blinked and stroked his perfectly shaven chin. “A marid? You mean a demon?”
“That’s what the lack-all’s say. Everyone has to march to his drum or else something bad happens. I think he’s probably the one who’s responsible for Treasurer Aarif’s death, and that’s my only lead. A name.”
He couldn’t believe it or he didn’t want to, it didn’t matter. Kherim looked towards the sea, catching a glimpse of the blue waves between two house blocks, and if he really paid attention, he could even hear some coastal birds cawing.
He had heard the legend of Kahlaran’s foundation many times. The ancient tale somehow survived, carved in the stone, about the last prince of the Old Garden and a water spirit sharing a name with the future town, guarding the gulf. He always thought of it as religious nonsense and he didn’t want that position to change now.
“That name’s a crude joke, especially here. He’s no demon. Just a smartass who uses the confusion he creates with the name.”
“It’s possible,” Dharm nodded. “A lot of people like to take advantage of panic. And these murders... You know how advantageous this is, my qrahr.”
“Chaos is never good. It looks like a buzz and a bustle, but it makes people slow, unprepared and confused.” Kherim shook his head. He feared what Dharm was referring to, but unfortunately, he couldn’t rule out the idea. “Should I look for the snake in-house, or outside?”
Dharm didn’t answer for a while, just staring at the white band between the sea and the sky. Kherim followed his gaze. He still remembered the sails of his father’s ship and the determined, encouraging waving of the Kahlarani sea captains. Back then he longed for the vast blue, to reach the horizon, to grasp the whiteness and pull himself straight up to the sky – but he had grown up.
Kherim didn’t believe he could climb up to the sky anymore, or that the djinns descended on holes torn in the blue fabric by storms, as his grandfather had told him. He couldn’t believe in this Marid either.
“We can’t rule either of them out,” Dharm finally said. “Kahlaran is as good as a target gets for any opposing province if they wish to expand. It would be worth it even for the port itself, and if the palace is in turmoil.”
Kherim knew exactly who he meant, but he was reluctant to imagine the possibility of another Kahlarani-Qajari war. The last was a mere twenty years ago, in his youth.
“Have you got a report on Shish yet?” he asked.
Dharm shook his head. “No. And I have a hunch that I never will.”
Kherim nodded without the slightest sign of surprise.
“I’ve decided, Dharm. I will attend the provincial council instead of my brother, and in the meantime, you will take care of the Third Regiment. I hope you know what I expect from you,” he said.
Dharm straightened up and saluted with his fist held to his chest. “I shall not disappoint you, my qrahr.”
“I know,” Kherim said and patted the man’s shoulder as they stopped in front of a low stone wall. He leaned against it and turned to Dharm. “If anyone even whispers the word ‘Marid’, put them in the palace prison until I get back from the council. And let’s not give up on that report yet.”
“Understood,” Dharm saluted again. “May Sheezan grant you strength, my lord.”
“Thank you, Dharm. Strength for you, too. We will both need it,” he said, then walked through a top-arched gate.
Kherim walked up the short steps, pushed aside the fringed curtains and opened the door. Saba, his second wife, was downstairs, dealing with something in the kitchen that smelled tempting, if even a little burnt. Although they had servants who made lunch, Saba liked to impress her husband with her own cooking.
The sound of the opening door could not escape the woman’s attention, as she left her work and stepped out of the kitchen. Her face lit up with a kind, warm smile. “Kherim! You’re home just in time for dinner.”
“Are you sure I’m not late? As I can smell, it’s more than done,” he said with a smile. He took the woman’s hands into his own, lifting them up to his face and softly kissing her fingers.
“I... may have had to keep it warm for a while,” Saba said.
“Where’s Aida?” Kherim asked, and the pleasant warmth immediately disappeared from her wife’s face.
“She’s upstairs. With Salar.”
“Make the table Saba, and call the girls in. I’ll be right back,” he said, looking deep into the woman’s eyes before letting her go and walking up the stairs. Saba’s sigh did not miss his attention and it made his heart sink, but he was forced to make many sacrifices. He didn’t want to neglect her, and he had the intention of making up for it as soon as he got time. That meant he had to spend his next day-off strolling around endlessly at the stalls of the market only to listen to the merchants undercutting each other, but it would have been worth it. Saba loved their beautiful Yadinan fabrics.
As Kherim approached the upper room he tried to walk as silently as he could before entering with the utmost discreteness. Aida sat with her back to the door, so he tried to approach her undetected. It was a faint hope, his first wife had better hearing than Kahlaran’s archers, and she was at least as attentive.
“You’re never home. But you’re not late today.” She spoke in a cold voice, which struck Kherim for a moment.
“Aida...” he whispered, walking up to his wife and gently touching her shoulders, but his eyes were already looking at the boy lying on the bed, soaked in sweat. He must have been the same age as Saleel’s son. He could be an orphan now if they weren’t targeting the prince’s lover, but his family. Kherim had four daughters, but only one son, and seeing him like this broke his heart.
“You know why I’m doing it. Maybe you alone,” he said.
Aida laughed out hoarsely, changing the poultice on the boy’s forehead with almost mechanical movements. “The eternal dilemma: to choose the country or family.”
She stopped to brush a shiny black lock of hair out of the boy’s face. The move radiated a sincere kindness and anxiety that touched even Kherim’s hardened soul.
“There was a doctor here today, an Arisian. He brought some tropical grasses. I hope they help.”
“He’ll be fine, Aida. I’m sure.” Kherim didn’t know if he was reassuring himself or the woman, but they both needed those words. They needed certainty. “He’s from Kanda’s bloodline, too. The true bloodline. The legacy of the Old Garden flows in his veins.”
Kherim leaned over his wife. His fingers gently held onto his son’s hand, while he whispered something in his ears. “You’re strong, Salar. You will recover.”